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Whild I alone did call upon thy aid,
my verse alode had all thy gentle grace;
but now my gracious numbers are decayed,
and my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
he robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
from thy behavious; beauty doth he give,
and found it in thy cheek; he can afford
no praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for what which he doth say,
since what he owes thee tou thyself dost pay.

- Shakespeare, Sonnet 79